Chapter 15
VARDA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE
I sit in the back seat of the cop car, watching the world go by.
Every familiar landmark, everything I’ve grown up with, rolls past and away into the distance.
There’s the water tower, spray-painted with a green mushroom cloud by some teenager before I was even born.
There’s the turnoff to the town cemetery.
There’s the rusted iron bridge over its long-dry gully; there’s the elementary school, where Lynette and I used to dare each other to do the dead man’s drop off the monkey bars, spinning around like firecrackers.
Usually we landed on our feet. Sometimes we didn’t.
Deputy Mays doesn’t say much as we drive but I feel his eyes on me, like he’s taking notes that he’ll jot down on a form later.
Subject wearing crop top and short pants.
Subject hunched over and hugging her midsection, body language nervous.
Subject’s mascara smeared—she looks crazy, she looks weird, she looks like a killer.
I remember when he was a senior, the way he stood next to the coach at football practice.
Hands in pockets, shoulders slumped. The rumor was that he’d tried and failed for three years to land a varsity spot.
Instead of being stuck on JV again as a senior, he’d taken the equipment manager position.
As a freshman the story had only registered as a kind of distant secondhand embarrassment, the kind of thing that would never happen to me or my friends.
We were different; we were special. We had what it took.
The hills even out around us, and we glide into town.
Past the library, the antique shop, the mill-and-feed where Rocky used to work.
The sheriff’s station, a small beige box.
Mays comes around and opens my door. For a moment he looms over it, his frame filling the space.
He’s always been muscular—I remember seeing him lifting with the team, back when the other freshman girls and I would peek in the weight room.
His biceps still strain against the blue polyester of his uniform.
After a moment, he steps to one side, but when I get out I have to brush against him.
I catch a little glimpse of a smirk before he turns away to lead me inside.
Sheriff Ramos is in his office. He’s a short, broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, known for a collection of cowboy hats that he wears according to different public appearances.
White when he’s announcing a case has been closed.
Deep brown leather for campaign season. Green with gold trim for high school football games.
Behind his desk is an autographed picture of the Lone Ranger from the old black-and-white TV show.
The sheriff used to be good friends with the Koenigs. I’d see him and his wife at the ranch for card nights, swimming parties, the Fourth of July barbecue. I don’t know if he’s stayed in touch with them, or if, like everyone else, he’s cut them off.
“Hi there, Iris,” he says. I can’t read a thing in his voice, which is quiet but not quite gentle.
I nod at him and take the red plastic chair he gestures to across from his desk.
Behind me I can still feel Mays in the doorway, shifting his weight.
It’s a relief when Ramos dismisses him with a curt nod.
“Thanks, Deputy, that’ll be all,” he says.
I don’t let myself look around to make sure he’s gone. I wait for the door to click. I prop my backpack against my shins, the weight of it grounding.
When he’s gone, Ramos looks down at his desk, shifts a few pieces of paper around. Then he leans back in his chair. He’s got a small round gut that would look almost cheerful on a different person, in a different place.
“Do you know why you’re here, Iris?” He clasps his hands on the desk and looks directly at me.
“No, sir, I don’t,” I say. Even as I say it I feel the vibration of my phone in my backpack. More posts on Sekrit? More messages from people that think I’m a killer?
“No?” He shakes his head. “You know, you kids, you put everything online and don’t even stop to think who might see it. I don’t get it. It was much harder to bust you before y’all had your phones out all the time.”
I’m not quite sure what he expects to hear, so I just ask, “Sir?”
His expression shifts out of neutral into a kind of oh-please look, head tilted to one side. “Come on, Iris. We know what’s going on.”
So either Sheriff Ramos has access to Sekrit—which means he’s been spying on us all this time—or someone from school told him about the post. I force the breath through my chest. I haven’t done anything wrong, I remind myself; none of the posts are true. I shouldn’t have to be on the defensive.
“Okay,” I say carefully. He waits for me to elaborate, but I just sit there trying to look as blank as possible.
The one thing I know about dealing with cops is you don’t want to give them any information they don’t already have.
Learned that from Lynette, ironically enough.
She’d learned it from her own raucous outlaw family.
He leans forward, forearms flat against the desk. “Why are people saying you were involved in Richard and Lynette’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking down at my lap. “I don’t know who would say something like that.”
“Hmm.” He goes still and silent again, trying to wait me out.
It’s not easy to let an awkward silence stretch out, not easy to keep from filling it with small talk or even just a joke.
Especially when you’re a cheerleader and you’ve been conditioned to keep things light and pleasant.
But at the back of my mind I keep hearing Lynette laughing at my naivete any time law enforcement came up in conversation.
“You don’t say shit about shit” is how she put it, her redneck ancestors possessing her tongue for that one sentence so she sounded more country than ever.
When he speaks again, though, he blindsides me.
“Didn’t you and Lynette used to be friends?” he asks.
My head snaps up before I can stop it. I’d expected him to ask more about the Sekrit posts—to ask if I’d been in the middle of any drama, if I’d done anything to deserve harassment. Not this.
“I … yeah,” I say. “Yes, we were very close.”
“What exactly happened between you girls?” he asks.
I hesitate. I don’t remember exactly what I told him in the early days after the murder, but I’m guessing he knows what everyone knows: that she was kicked off the team for using drugs, that almost everyone had cut her off afterward. That she spent her last few months of life alone and lonely.
“She got kicked off the cheer team in October, and we stopped talking after that,” I finally say.
“You stopped talking to her, or she stopped talking to you?” he asks.
“I … guess it was mutual,” I say carefully.
Ramos nods slowly. He leans forward on his elbows across the desk. “I heard you had a big fight with her at school. Some of your classmates seem to think it almost got physical.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say automatically. “It wasn’t a fight. It was just an argument.” Right away, though, I can hear how that sounds: that I’m protesting too much.
And maybe I am. It hadn’t been physical, but it had felt like a much bigger deal than I’m making it out to be now.
It was a week after she was kicked off cheerleading, and she hadn’t replied to any of my texts or calls or notes.
So I confronted her in the hall. Blocked her path and wouldn’t let her pass until she talked to me.
“Lynette, come on, I’m on your side here,” I said.
I remember her sour breath as she stepped close to me, her face just a few inches from mine.
I remember her skin was too pale under her makeup, and it was strangely rough.
Her eyes were wild. I’d seen her get in a few fights over the years, but that was the first time it occurred to me to wonder if she’d hit me.
“On my side?” she said with a sharp, hot laugh.
“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself? ”
My stomach went acid and I forced myself not to look away. She couldn’t possibly know about the letter I’d sent to Gloria. Even if she did, I hadn’t signed it. She couldn’t know it was from me.
“I just want you to get help,” I said. I suddenly became aware of the people all around us, watching. Filming. I heard the word “fight” from the crowd. I hadn’t intended this to be so public; I just hadn’t been able to corner her anywhere else. Add it to the list of regrets, I suppose.
“Sure,” Lynette said. “Enjoy your new spot as top girl, Iris. Just remember, the higher you are, the farther the fall.”
And that was it. She’d pushed by me and left me standing there in the hall, smarting from what felt like an unfair accusation.
It was the last time we’d talked.
“Does this have something to do with the Sekrit posts?” I ask abruptly.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he says with a mild smile.
“It seems strange that someone would start a rumor like this for no good reason. How about this one comment…” He holds up a piece of paper from an enormous stack, and I realize suddenly what he’s looking at.
He’s printed out all the comments from Sekrit.
Every single one. “From, uh, puma208375890? He says you left your party on the night of the murder.”
My throat feels dry. “Yeah, I saw that post. But it’s not true.”
“Then why’s this kid saying it?” Ramos presses.
I stifle the flare of irritation. How should I know? But I need to stay a sweet dumb cheerleader in this man’s eyes. “I don’t know, Sheriff. Some people like to stir up drama online, just to harass people.”
Now he looks genuinely confused. “But why would someone do that?”
Before Rocky’s violent turn, there hadn’t been a murder in Varda in fourteen years.
The department mostly busts up parties that get too rowdy or sets up sobriety checkpoints at the holidays.
And they definitely don’t have anything to do with cybercrime.
How am I supposed to explain the concept of a troll or a shitposter to someone who has a Lone Ranger picture on his wall? I shrug again.
Finally, Ramos shakes his head.
“Okay, Iris,” he says slowly, carefully.
“I just wanted to check in with you. I know cyberbullying can be a real problem for you kids.” From the way he says it I know he looked up the definition of cyberbullying about five minutes before he had me brought in.
My desire to laugh, though, dies in my throat at his next words.
“Next time maybe I’ll check in with your classmates instead.
Some of them never did seem to believe that Rocky would do something so awful.
Maybe I’ll check with them, see if there’s something they think we missed. ”
I’m naive, but I’m not stupid. I can hear the threat loud and clear. But I fight to keep my expression blank. Don’t give him anything. Don’t say shit about shit.
“Thank you for your help, Sheriff,” I say.
I stand up and sling my backpack over my shoulder. I wait a beat to give him a chance to stop me. When he doesn’t, I push my way out the door.